


bush/maria 2

by romanticalgirl



Series: pick-a-porn [27]
Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:56:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted 4-28-08</p>
    </blockquote>





	bush/maria 2

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 4-28-08

They dock in Portsmouth for a few short hours, barely enough time for Hornblower to rush to the Admiralty and for Haver to supervise the loading of supplies. Bush takes the time and Hornblower’s grant of leave to find shore, find the room he knows is waiting. There was nothing by way of letter, merely the mention in Hornblower’s letter that they would be ashore with no time to pay call, but he did not wish for Maria to hear of it otherwise. 

Those simple words hold unspoken meaning to Bush though, and to Hornblower’s wife. There is a room for let and money under the table, a few hours rented like a dockside whore, but more. So much more. 

She is no longer shy with him, brazen almost in the way she stands by the window. Someone could see if they would raise their eyes, but here no one looks above the dirty sidewalks and streets, so she is safe. He is safe. They are safe. He doesn’t speak her name as he shuts the door, but she turns regardless, moving into him with the speed of a long-lost lover. He is more – husband’s closest confidante, husband’s second in command – but here he is just that to her, just a man who needs to touch and taste and find himself inside her in ways that no other woman before or since he first touched her has been able to fulfill.

She is only dressed in her sheath, aware of the need for haste in this to prolong the pleasure in other things. He eases it off of her, reminding himself by touch of her skin. It is soft as down and full, buxom and warm with wide childbearing hips that he holds with no sense of decorum or delicacy. He has left bruises that no one has seen but the two of them, and Maria has whispered for them, wanting proof that she can press against at night, her body flooded with the memory of him.

He knows no polite names for what they do, only the ones of the Bible and the streets and the ships, and he whispers them to her when she asks what they are doing, watching the blush heat her skin until she clenches around him, hot and wet and wild as the storms that claw at his sails on the waves.

He goes back to the ship with the smell of her on his tongue and the marks of her nails hidden where his Captain will never see.


End file.
